


Filch My Good Name

by Blackpenny



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 21:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19326154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpenny/pseuds/Blackpenny
Summary: This is a post-Sato fit in the Blake and Mortimer Universe. It follows Out of Hell and takes place in the U.S. where Olrik has been taken in by the CIA.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olrik has found a kind of haven with the CIA.

The original deal was both fair and mutually beneficial. The CIA wanted Olrik’s information and expertise, and Olrik wanted a safe haven. His American lawyers, bless their black hearts, were able to specific safety features into the contract; Olrik was allowed to bring his various holdings into the US without interference, get a new identity, and be “hired” as a consultant. In return, the CIA bought his services for a term of no less than five years, plus every precious bit of information he had to offer. The deal also stated that Olrik was to receive American citizenship as soon as possible and relocate anywhere in the continental U.S. just as soon as was practical. He had tried to get Alaska and Hawaii included, but didn’t really expect The Company to bite. It was a perfectly balanced, if completely unethical arrangement, but some people insisted on trying to screw it up. Olrik has already punished two of the men who got in his way, but the biggest problem lies straight ahead.

It’s been ten months since the papers were signed, and Olrik still does not have citizenship, and he’s still living in a Brookland, a suburb of Washington, D.C. Three decades in the spy game have taught Olrik some hard lessons about compromise and swallowing pride when necessary, but every swallow is bitter and harsh. It’s not about being in charge; his life experience has soured him on that. In fact, Olrik specifically arranged to act as a consultant, a freelancer so he could stay aloof. Ideally, he’d like to report to one person only and be otherwise autonomous. Olrik is not interested in reforming the CIA, or making it more efficient, although The Company cries out for competence. Freedom has become more important than power at this stage of his life and Olrik is more than willing to pay the price for freedom in work, risk, experience, and intelligence, but not in insults.

So here he is, willing to “play ball” as the Americans say. He has done his best to be helpful and creative and has already saved the American government a great deal of trouble (and a few lives) with his background knowledge alone. He’s interpreted intelligence, filled in the gaps of many a strange history, and given his perspective as an enemy of all that is good and holy. Most of the Company men have responded by being professional and pleasant. Others have been cool but polite, which is no blow to Olrik’s ego. Three have painted targets on their backs by trying to boss or bully him.

***

The first fool was Granby, the supposed Soviet specialist. How he got a name for that, Olrik can’t imagine. Granby hadn’tt actually set foot inside the USSR although he skirted around the edges. Granby’s fixation was the idea that the Soviets are on the verge of a comeback and that resources should be funneled to that part of the world. This view is popular in parts of D.C., but Olrik was always of the view that Granby’s arguments were more about building up his own reputation than preserving national security. It didn’t bother Olrik that Granby was an idiot; the world is full of them. However, Granby made the mistake of treating Olrik with offhanded contempt, dismissing the “new guy’s” views as if he were a child. He talked constantly about the need to keep the consultants in line. There was simply no way Olrik was going to put up with that for five years. Luckily, Granby also enjoyed treating husbands like fools, including those husbands who happened to be higher than he on the government food chain. It was a simple matter to arrange for one of the top-ranking husband to return home early, and that was the end of Granby. The idiot was too arrogant to be much of a challenge, but was good enough for practice. Years of freelance work had left Olrik’s palace intrigue skills a bit rusty so Granby was a welcome piece of cuttlebone.

***

Then there was Clough, the loathsome disciplinarian. He was the one responsible for Olrik’s persistent statelessness and confinement to the D.. area. Clough didn’t know much about Olrik’s real story, but he knew that “Allingham” was a false name and that Olrik was not American-born but rather some kind of Brit of Irishman. Clough had a prejudice against foreigners, Europeans in particular. He assiduously reported any sign of impatience on Olrik’s part as indicative of mental instability or corruption and urged the higher-ups to keep Olrik on a short leash. In reality, Clough had no idea of Olrik’s real temper or craziness, and would have been terrified if he had. Time has taught Olrik to be patient, at least to the point of keeping his rage simmering. Clough, by contrast, was the kind of unimaginative straight-arrow who prided himself on doing everything for his country and took his own position for granted. Unlike Granby, Clough had no vices. He did, however, pride himself on being a rugged outdoorsman and a man of action. It was easy to manipulate Clough into insisting on accompanying, or rather chaperoning Olrik on a mission to South America. Somehow, Clough managed to fatally annoy the wrong people during that mission and Olrik ended up escorting his body back in a box.

That Clough strayed from Olrik and the mission would normally have been a black mark on the man’s reputation, but as Clough was dead and beyond reproach, The Company covered it up. Only Olrik knew that Clough had run headlong into a drug cartel hoping to catch the consultant in the wrong. It amuses Olrik to know that he was able to get rid of the man without raising a hand or doing anything illegal. Clough’s suspicious nature did the job for him.

When Olrik returned from South American with only a coffin for company, it caused a few eyebrows to rise, but Olrik’s story never changed and it checked out in every detail. Why not? It was the simple truth with a bit of a trim. Olrik made a point of being unusually subdued, as if Clough’s death weighed on him. He even confided to Emerson that he had warned Clough about focusing on the mission: “If only he had listened, but you know what he was like. He wouldn’t listen to anyone when he was convinced he was in the right.” Emerson has been quite sympathetic. 

Emerson. Now there’s a strange bird. He’s as straight-edged as Clough was, but is somehow neither boring nor infuriating. For reasons unknown, Emerson has decided to do what little he can to make Olrik’s life easier. He’s friendly and polite, and often makes a point of reiterating and stressing Olrik’s points in debriefing sessions. He’s even invited Olrik to join the Company men for drinks. Olrik has declined every invitation, but he doesn’t mind the occasional conversation with Emerson. In some ways, Emerson is like Sharkey, if someone added thirty IQ points and a Harvard education to Olrik’s former bodyguard. Emerson seems to have the idea that isolation and disdain might drive Olrik back to his old ways; as if Olrik’s work with the CIA is some kind of bizarre redemption. Given a choice, Olrik would like to deal exclusively with someone like this, a contact who wouldn’t try to put a thumb down, someone who would honor agreements and leave him the hell alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olrik can't escape palace intrigue.

Two down, one to go, as the Americans say. Clough and Granby are history, but the biggest challenge lies ahead. There is still one person standing between Olrik and his plan, not his initial plan of simply leaving his past behind, but the plan for building a new life he keeps close to his heart.

Shortly after he moved to Washington, Olrik installed himself in a hotel apartment in the pleasant suburb of Brookland. It’s too small and not at all to his taste, but it is comfortable enough for a short stay. He has two suits and a small store of other clothes in the closet, but not even a book or coffee cup of his own in the rented rooms. Since coming to America, Olrik has carefully and secretly shipped dozens of boxes of his accumulated treasures from storage sites around the world: hundreds of books, pieces of utterly unique furniture, two sets of absurdly fine China (gifts from grateful clients) in addition to the antique pieces that will never be used, small painting and sculptures that are worth a fortune in themselves. The trunks and crates are sitting in a D.C. warehouse under yet another assumed name. Olrik has been waiting patiently to bring everything home, and now he knows where home is. He’s transferred his world assets to the Allingham accounts as well. Surprisingly, his biggest source of income these days is investments. Back in the 50s, Olrik gambled that the big powers would continue their love affair with high-tech warfare for at least a lifetime, and funneled money into experimental aircraft, spy technology, and computers. Computers have become indispensable to government work and there is talk of a civilian market. Some day, Olrik believes, even average people will do their home accounts on a computer. Maybe he’ll live to see it. 

Olrik is drawn to the west; not the rugged prairie west of the John Wayne movies, but the lush rain forests and seascapes of the coast. Once, long ago, he passed through British Columbia on his way to Asia and eventually Tibet. He had been struck by the quiet, the natural beauty, and the opportunity of anonymity promised by those massive trees and dim skies. At the time, he merely noted those things and moved on, but he’s no longer a kid on the make. The west coast also boasts large cities with their own polyglot sophistication, but Olrik is bored with sophistication in large doses. His target is the tiny town of Florence, Oregon, specifically, a 20-acre spread just outside of Florence.

The house is not large by the standards of Imperial Lhasa, but unlike most of the castles he’s lived in, it includes modern systems for heating, cooling, and plumbing and large, well-insulated windows. There are plenty of rooms for a single man who does not intend to keep live-in servants. The land has partially cleared, but not farmed, and the lot abuts a national forest which means that there will not be any nasty surprises in the form of new shopping centers, the scourge of the American landscape. There is enough wooded area to get lost for a few hours at a time and stables that can be easily converted to a small aircraft hangar. God, how he longs to be in the air again. Olrik bought the property at full price from a canny elderly couple. He didn’t even attempt to haggle, and considers himself lucky to have found such a place at all. Anyone with eyes can tell you that in a decade or two, West Coast land will be close to unobtainable. 

Olrik takes a walk in one of Brookland’s many parks nearly every evening, thinking of the day when he’ll be the lord of his own property. Making plans for semi-retirement makes him feel oddly young. Perhaps that old saying about living well is correct after all. On one walk, he stops at a magazine stand and leafs through some magazines. He thinks about hobbies, aware of his own absurdity. What would be a good past-time for a former spy, military advisor, and gang leader? Woodworking, perhaps? Gardening? Keeping horses? This new yearning for domesticity is both amusing and disconcerting. Why does the idea of living a long life seem so transgressive? His younger self wanted power and control and fantastic wealth. Since then, Olrik has lost control many times, has even suffered enslavement. Perhaps these experiences have worn him down. Perhaps age has brought him wisdom. Whatever the reason, Olrik is ready to toss his big dreams aside and settle for security, freedom, comfort, and wealth that is merely eye-opening. Most of all, he looks forward to the luxury of time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic sexual violence.

Of course, none of these plans can amount to anything with McMaster around. McMaster is bluff, popular man, but he makes Olrik nervous. He’s the kind of man who’ll slap someone’s back a bit too hard, grasp a shoulder with enough force to grind the bones. McMaster is a former marine with a law degree from Yale and an exemplary record of public service. He has a beautiful wife from a socially prominent family and three blond, athletic children. 

McMaster wants to ruin everything, and worse, he may be able to do so. The bastard knows too much. McNair disapproves of the Company’s use of consultants with dubious pasts and he disapproves of Olrik in particular, not that he’s said anything directly. He’s made a few casual references to Tibet and Los Alamos, however, and once he handed Olrik an intelligence sharing request from a certain Blake of MI5 while others were watching. Olrik is too much of an old hand to flinch at an enemy’s opening move, but the sight of that memo, and McMaster’s offensive, doglike grin was a shock. That night, Olrik dreamt of being trapped in the telecephaloscope for the first time in years. For that dream alone, McMaster deserves to die.

How does the man know? It can’t be simple recognition. Between the necessary nose reshaping in Kyoto, the elective earlobe reshaping in D.C., and the beard, Olrik is not the man from his old mug shots. Perhaps Olrik’s familiarity with Asian languages rang a bell, or maybe McMaster was officially informed as part of some arcane CIA protocol. Maybe it’s all a set-up by some higher power to test Olrik’s responses. Of course, Olrik’s real identity is known to a few people in key positions, but if it were generally known, or even rumored, it would be impossible to work. He’d be burned with nowhere to go. Olrik has no doubt that McMaster means him real harm. He has known too many real bastards in his time to miss the signs. Soon, McMaster will attempt a coup, and it will be very unpleasant. Olrik must get rid of him before this happens, and he must do so without leaving a trace.

***

First, research is necessary. Olrik simply takes what he needs from a store room. The taxpayers would be appalled if they knew the amount of expensive equipment just sitting there; Olrik knows of one agent who brought a set of portable telephones home for his children to play with. Olrik chooses a camera and video recorder, small, portable pieces intended for spying on individuals from a distance. He follows McMaster for months, bored to tears. McMaster’s routine consists of work, home, club, cottage. He doesn’t have a mistress and rarely drinks more than a single beer at a time. Olrik learns nothing except that McMasters’s pretty wife has more than her fair share of bruises and his children walk on eggshells. Nobody in the Company would care about that. The surveillance is so boring and useless that Olrik starts to think of just taking McMaster out and making it look like a mugging gone wrong.

And then a miracle happens, on the Sunday before Christmas, appropriately enough. McMaster regularly attends one of those massive, oddly-named churches that seem to be Protestant in name, but really go their own strange way. He leads a men’s bible study group and does volunteer work at the soup kitchen for indigent people desperate enough to listen to a sermon in exchange for a meal. Sometimes, McMaster takes teenagers from the street out for pizza and bowling parties with other church members. McMaster has taken one boy in particular under his wing. Something about this relationship triggers a vibration in Olrik’s sensory web. The kid is in his late teens, a dead ringer for Olrik himself at that age – all bones and nose and black hair over the eyes. He’s shy and diffident though, lacking the ferocity that allowed Olrik to survive his own youth. Olrik can see that the boy is grateful for the attention, but uncomfortable with McMaster’s rough exuberance.

This Sunday, McMaster does not go straight home as usual. Instead, he kisses his wife and kids, and sets off on foot with the dark-haired boy. From his rented car, Olrik watches the scene and manages to pick up some of the conversation on the mic, something about getting the kid a place to stay. He’ll stay at the club, McMaster says. His wife raises no objection at all. Probably relieved, Olrik supposes.

The light is dim and there’s a moderately heavy snowfall, so Olrik decides that following on foot will be less conspicuous than bringing the car. He pockets his equipment, locks the car doors, and pulls his collar up and his hat down. He quickly identifies the correct sets of tracks, just in case he loses the pair. After three blocks the pair stops at a low-rate but respectable hotel, the kind that Washington interns use before they find more permanent homes. 

The lobby is empty and quiet, and Olrik is easily able to hear the entire transaction. McMaster takes room 301 for his “nephew” who needs to be up early for a job interview. He’ll just go up and make sure the kid is settled in. The clerk doesn’t listen to McMaster’s story and barely looks up as he hands over the keys. Olrik waits five minutes then asks for room 303. The clerk does look up then, but Olrik maintains a bland expression, so the man shrugs and hands over the key. It’s not as if he can afford to turn down business, particularly the extra $20 Olrik adds to the room rate.

Olrik walks to his room as silently as he knows how, and sets up the microphone by the wall. He carefully raises the sash window and snakes the camera wire around to get a view of the next room. Fortunately, there’s enough of an eave to keep the snow off the equipment. Olrik positions himself comfortably to take in whatever show McMaster presents. He’s hoping that McMaster is a closet queen, maybe one who shares the proclivities of a certain FBI director. Personally, Olrik doesn’t much care what people do in their spare time, as long as they leave him out of it, but The Company is very down on what is referred to as deviant behavior. He watches as the beefy agent hangs up his jacket, turns on the television, and takes a swig from a silver flask. The kid’s jacket is already gone. He’s wearing a striped t-shirt and jeans, and hugs himself as if chilled or nervous. McMaster downs his drink and pulls out a large, white handkerchief. As Olrik stares in astonishment, McMaster grabs the kid and ties the handkerchief around his mouth, gagging him. McMaster then slaps the boy’s face, sending the kid to the floor, and starts beating him quickly and savagely with open hands. Olrik rocks backwards in surprise. He had expected something strange, but this? Is it even incriminating? Could McMaster pass it off as a tough interrogation if he had to?

Olrik goes back to watching. What McMaster does next leaves no room for doubt; the man is a freak, and a violent, nasty freak at that. No wonder his wife seems punch-drunk all the time. Olrik feels a twitch of nausea as he realizes the implications of such a man gaining power over him. Pulling himself together, he makes sure the camera is capturing the atrocity next door and gets a glass of water. As the night progresses, he checks the camera and sound, but does not watch. At the midnight check, McMaster cleans himself up, dresses, and throws a handful of bills at the kid on the floor. The boy doesn’t move.

Olrik retrieves the surveillance equipment and waits. After ten minutes, he makes a decision. He goes next door and knocks softly. There’s no answer, so he tries the door. Luckily for him, there’s no automatic lock. As he steps in, the kid attempts to flee, but he has no strength left. Their interview is brief. Olrik introduces himself as the hotel’s detective, and the younger man is too frightened and confused to question him. 

The boy’s story is about what Olrik expected. He claims to be 19 and says his parents kicked him out three years ago – Olrik has a good idea why. The boy has a twangy drawl from somewhere in the South, although Olrik can’t pinpoint the accent. He’s been drifting around doing odd jobs, trying to live a straight life. He went to the church for help and thought of McMaster as a kind of father. The boy is a lamb, born to be prey, Olrik notes with disgust. He doesn’t even seem angry at McMaster, just sorrowful and ashamed. In the kid’s place, Olrik would be plotting bloody revenge. Hell, at that age he had already killed a man in a combination of self-defence and revenge. This boy just holds head in his hands and weeps. Olrik draws a deep breath to muster some patience and suggests that the boy seek more liberal communities, perhaps in New York or San Francisco, if he wants to live to twenty.

“Don’t you think people can change? Don’t you think you should try?” the boys asks, eyes full of tears. 

“No. You might find yourself a different person in difference circumstances, but no, people don’t really change.” Olrik has no idea if the kid will follow his advice, and doesn’t much care.

Olrik gives the kid $200, ostensibly to preserve the hotel’s reputation, and orders him to get on a bus for somewhere far away before the sun comes up on Monday. Before the boy can question his sudden good fortune, Olrik leaves and walks rapidly down the hotel stairs, out through a fire exit, and down the streets to his rental car. He checks for suspicious sounds or silhouettes every second and when he approaches McMaster’s church, he takes a good look around before getting into his car. It isn’t until he’s driven for 12 blocks that the tension in his shoulders begins to ebb away. He needs to launch his assault tomorrow, Olrik thinks. He needs to get this done before McMaster triggers his trap.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olrik sets a trap.

Early Monday morning, Olrik calls the office and leaves a message that he won’t be in. It’s a courtesy. As a consultant, Olrik is under no contractual obligation to show up at certain times, but he’s been very conscientious while on his parole. Olrik goes for an early morning walk to clear his head and on the way back he buys a box of rubber gloves, a pad of paper, and a package of envelopes at a corner store. He makes a pot of strong coffee and reviews the videotape. Carefully, leaving no fingerprints, he packs the videotape and a brief printed note in one of the envelopes. He addresses it, adding a dummy return address and affixes more than enough postage. He mails the letter, returns the rental car, and sends up a silent prayer to whichever god protects spies and scoundrels who work in the dark.

The package is going to the worst spy the Soviets have to offer. Just the name Ivan Popov is enough to raise a laugh in any Company gathering. The man calls himself an importer and translator but his attempts to recruit CIA personnel have been so clumsy and obvious that everyone refers to him as Mr. Spy. He actually attempted to recruit Mr. Allingham without realizing that he was talking to the same Olrik who worked with Voronov all those years ago. Olrik immediately reported the contact, of course. Emerson laughed. He thinks the Soviets tolerate Popov because he lulls the American agents into a false sense of security. Knowing the man as he does, Olrik suspects that Popov enjoys Washington night life too much to make much effort to actually do his job. 

It becomes clear within four days that Popov received the package. McMaster is shaky and irritable and complains of headaches. Olrik notices the little Russian tailing McMaster in the street and mentions it jokingly to Emerson. Emerson responds with a remark about Mr. Spy trying to learn something from the best, but Olrik is satisfied to see the look of concern on his face. Late that afternoon, as Olrik is leaving the shop, McMaster cuts him off. McMaster has that offensive grin on his face and he grasps Olrik’s shoulder heartily and painfully.

“I hear we might be working together.” 

“Oh? News to me.”

“Maybe you’re just not in the loop,” McMaster’s grin widens. “We ought to get to know each other, maybe grab a beer.” 

Olrik stops walking and looks McMaster in the face. “I have plans, McMaster. Maybe some other time.” Some other time in hell, he adds to himself.

“Friday! No arguments. There’s one or two things we need to discuss. I want to pick your brain about the Far East.” Olrik had been expecting a more subtle threat. Perhaps external pressures are getting to McMaster.

Olrik smiles pleasantly, something he rarely bothers to do. “I’ll be glad to help you out, Jim. If you’re still free at six this Friday, I’ll meet you at Reynold’s Tavern.” He shakes and releases McMaster’s hand before the other man knows what he is about, turns on his heel and leaves while the other man is still off-guard. McMaster stands for a moment with a puzzled look on his face. 

McMaster watches the consultant walk away. The man’s good cheer is a warning siren, but of what? As McMaster thinks, he feels a light touch on his arm. It’s that idiot Emerson.

“Hey, Jim, I’m glad I caught you. Would you mind stepping back in for a moment? Something’s come up. Urgent.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero checks his trap.

Olrik finds himself in a small private room at Reynold’s Taven at six o’clock as scheduled, but not with McMaster. McMaster is in a holding cell somewhere and will never work for the Company, or anyone else, again. That much everyone knows. The rest Olrik is waiting to hear from Emerson. He wonders how much of the real story he will get. 

The snow is falling once again, but lightly, just a sugar dusting. Emerson returns with the drinks he insisted on buying: a gin and tonic for Olrik and a scotch and water for himself. Olrik has decided that if the story is worthwhile, he’ll offer to buy dinner for both of them. Meanwhile, he needs to feign both ignorance and innocence. 

Emerson’s tale is disappointingly short on detail, but accurate enough. Apparently Popov confronted McMaster with incriminating film and a blackmail proposition. McMaster didn’t report the incident, which in turn set off alarm bells that culminated in the man’s arrest. As far as Emerson knows, the whole episode took only a few weeks from start to finish. Olrik is appropriately struck by the strangeness of it all.

“The most astonishing part of all of this is that Popov actually came close to succeeding! A miracle. If I were a gambling man, I’d bet on the biggest long shot I could find.”

“I’m glad you can joke about it, Allingham. McMaster was actually preparing to turn over documents to that idiot. Nothing important, but who knows where it would have led. It was a lucky thing you noticed Popov when you did.”

“I noticed, but I had no idea it was so serious. What on earth did he have on McMaster?” Emerson blushes. “It was material of an, uh, sexual nature. A young man. Quite awful, actually. I really don’t want to get into details.”

Olrik returns Emerson’s candor with a suitable display of shock and dismay. “How terrible for his family! I saw his wife once. Beautiful girl. It’s hard to imagine a man straying with a wife like that at home, but I suppose people like that can’t help it.”

“His wife is filing for divorce and she won’t give him a dime for a lawyer. Did you know that it was all her money? Anyway, her family is set against McMaster forever now. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard, traitor that he is.” Emerson shakes his head in disgust. The poor man is so comically upset that Olrik makes his offer of dinner, which is quickly accepted. After the waiter takes their orders, Emerson explains the real purpose of this meeting. The “attrition” of the past year has necessitated a power restructuring, and Emerson has profited. He’s now – at his own request – in a position to make decisions that will affect Olrik. The first is that Olrik will report to him alone. No more interminable information sharing sessions, no more punching the clock, no more hotel apartment.

“I suppose you’ll be moving fairly quickly now,” Emerson says once the waiter returns with their orders. 

“Indeed. I never intended to stay here for long Of course, I’ll fly in whenever needed.”

“I don’t suppose the waiting has been fun for you.” 

“I’ve been waiting for many things.”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes, the citizenship issue. I can arrange a quick swearing in Monday, if you like. Just a private matter.” 

Olrik takes a bite of his fish and considers. Emerson was awfully quick with the citizenship answer. He’s been awfully quick with a lot of things.

“How long have you known who I really am?”

Emerson looks up with little evident surprise. “Since the beginning. So did McMaster.” Emerson cuts up his steak several pieces all at once, like a little kid. “McMaster hated your guts.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Huh. Really? He never put pressure on you in any way?

“Not at all,” Olrik answers truthfully. “He wasn’t particularly pleasant, but he didn’t make any threats, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Emerson continues to eat without comment. Olrik decides that he might as well push ahead. 

“So, McMaster hated my guts, as you say. How do you feel about working with a former enemy?’

“Fair question, so honest answer. Okay then. If I had caught you at Los Alamos, I would have shot you down like a mad dog. But that was then. My government has decided that you are useful, and I’m loyal to my government. 

“And that’s enough.” Olrik is skeptical.

“Yes. I’m a Company man. I do what I’m told and when in doubt, I do what I think is best for my country to the best of my ability. The information you’ve provided has been useful so far, and I’m assuming that will continue.”

The atmosphere is heavy as the two men continue their meal, each considering what he has learned today. When the waiter brings their coffee, Emerson breaks the silence.

“Ol- Allingham, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re the same person who tried to set off an H-bomb at the Hoover dam. I think you’re probably a kind of human monster, but maybe there are reasons for that, and maybe you should get a chance to make up for it. God works in mysterious ways. You’ll never be a good person, exactly, but if you’re working with us, you’re on the side of good, and that’s a start.”

Olrik is momentarily speechless. He’s always known that Emerson was an Eagle Scout, but this is more than he expected. He thinks of the things he’s already done for the CIA, how many would be considered immoral or even criminal by the average citizen. Finally, he raises his glass in a half-mocking toast. “Well, Emerson, I think you’re on to something. At least, I think I can work with you without worrying about a double-cross, which is all I ask.”

Emerson returns the toast. “To good work ahead.”

***

Later, Emerson insists on driving Olrik to Brookland. It’s too cold and to walk, he argues, especially with alcohol in your system. Olrik stays quiet and watches the snow fall, letting Emerson do the talking. Between the booze and elation over McMaster’s fall, he has to make an effort to stay tight-lipped and noncommittal.

As they round the corner to Olrik’s building, Emerson says something which startles Olrik out of his musing.

“Hmm? Sorry?”

“I said, my mother loved birds.”

“Oh? She had pets?” And what does that have to do with the price of tea in China? Olrik adds to himself.

“No, that’s what I was saying. She loved birds, but she hated cages. Mom always said it was kinder to kill a creature than to lock it up. She used to put feeders all over the yard and the birds would come to her. Every kind of bird you can imagine. She would stand out there watching and they would just go about their business, as if she were one of them.”

“Ah, I think I see what you’re saying. You prefer feeders to cages?”

“That’s right.”

“And we consultants, we’re the songbirds that come to you?” 

“Or maybe the jays and crows that steal whatever isn’t nailed down if you give them a chance,” Emerson laughs. “Those were her favorites. She always liked the clever ones.”

Emerson stops, but Olrik doesn’t get out right away.

“Emerson, you should know that whatever it says in your records, I have never turned on an employer. Not if I entered service freely.”

“I count on that,” Emerson returns. Olrik thanks him for the lift and leaves the car. As he walks away, Olrik turns up the collar of his long, black coat and lean into the wind. A crow, Emerson thinks, or maybe a raven. He laughs at the idea and heads for home, a man at peace with himself and glowing with confidence. Why not? He bet on black and won the jackpot. McMaster never had a chance.


End file.
